


To Sleep

by Aylarah



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: But it will be updated, Hurt/Comfort, I think?, M/M, This is going to be slowly updated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:39:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aylarah/pseuds/Aylarah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub,<br/>For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come. (Hamlet, III:I)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm posting this now in order to make myself finish it... I wrote it well over a year ago and add a few words every few months. I really want to get it finished, and this is probably the best way to make myself do that. But it won't be done quickly - this is the busiest term at uni I've ever had (and it's my last :/). So updates will be every other week or so.

“Fuck!” That’s the third plate he’s dropped in two weeks.

Harry sighs, closes his eyes and leans his head against the cupboard. Takes a few deep breaths. Getting angry isn’t going to solve anything. He just needs to relax.

“Harry?” A voice calls from the hallway.

“I’m in here.” Harry responds after a moment, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. “The kitchen.”

At the sound of footsteps he turns to see a familiar mop of red hair entering the room.

“Hey mate,” Ron says. Harry can tell the exact moment when Ron spots the shards of plate scattered all over the floor. It’s the slight frown that he tries to hide, the hint of sadness that creeps into his eyes for just a moment. “Again?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, no longer frustrated, just tired. He places the tea towel on the counter and moves to take a seat at the table, stepping across the ex-plate without bothering to clean it up. “I’d offer to make you a cuppa, but…” He lifts his still trembling hand; that giving all the explanation needed.

“Not to worry, I know where everything is.” Ron grins reassuringly, moving to put the kettle on. Sometimes Harry doesn’t know what he’d do without his friend, who’s now clearing up the mess on the floor with a quick flick of his wand.

“I’m just getting sick of this.” Harry says when he’s handed a mug, tea already prepared the way he likes it (splash of milk, one sugar). He’s getting better at drinking left-handedly. “I mean, one day it’s going to happen when I really need to use my wand, and I just don’t know what will happen then.”

“Let’s take these things one step at a time.” Ron says, sitting opposite Harry with his own drink. “You don’t know that’s going to happen.”

“Of course I do,” Harry says bitterly. “It’s getting worse all the time. That’s one of the reasons Ginny left, isn’t it?”

Ron says nothing. There’s nothing he could say to respond, it’s true. Ginny’s parting words to Harry had told him how he was going to become a danger to their children, and that she hadn’t signed up to live with a cripple. Never mind that she used the wrong term since there was nothing wrong with his legs, her message was perfectly clear. In the year since their divorce was finalised, Harry had maybe spoken to her twice regarding the children, and that was more than enough for him.

“Have you thought about going back to St Mungo’s?” Ron asks, moving the conversation away from his sister. “They’re coming up with new cures for things all the time you know, they may be able to help.”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t want to have to go back there, spent long enough when it first appeared.” That had been shortly after the end of the war. Months he had spent trying to find out exactly what curse it was that had hit him, but no one at the hospital had had any idea, and they offered no solutions. And so Harry had watched over the years as the curse got progressively worse, the shakes coming more often, lasting longer, becoming more violent, and knowing that it was something he would have to deal with for the rest of his life. On days like these, Harry hated Voldemort more than ever. Fucker couldn’t just die, could he, he had to make sure Harry would never be able to forget that period of his life, even for a moment. 

Ron lets out a sudden exhalation of breath. “You think you were in there for a long time? Hermione told me yesterday that they’re going to have to pull the plug on Snape soon he’s been there so long.” 

Harry blinks. He can’t have heard that right. “What?”

“Yeah,” Ron says, pausing to drain the last of his tea. “Twenty-five years is coming up soon isn’t it? Some law says they can’t keep him longer than that, especially since he’s got no one claiming responsibility for him. As a ward of the state, if there’s no change after twenty-five years, they give up. At least that’s what she said, I think.” He frowns; obviously trying to remember a conversation he wasn’t paying one hundred percent attention to.

“Wait, Snape? What’s he doing in St Mungo’s?” Harry can feel that his pulse has sped up, can hear the blood pounding. There’s no way… is there?

Ron gives Harry a funny look. “Well he’s in a coma, isn’t he? Nagini did a right number on him, they’ve not managed to get a single response from him the entire time he’s been there, though from what ‘Mione says, they didn’t try all that hard after the first few weeks.”

Harry doesn’t feel like he can breathe, let alone answer. He can feel the shaking in his hand become more violent. Needs to stay calm. It’s not working. There’s a rushing in his ears, and he can’t see, needs to catch his breath, but he can’t, he really can’t, and…

“Harry, mate, are you ok?”

Ron’s voice brings him out of the darkness.

“Snape…” Harry’s voice cracks. “He’s alive?” There’s a rawness in his chest, a wound ripped open that he thought had finally healed years ago.

“Yeah, Harry, you didn’t know?” Ron asks, frowning, faltering. “I… I thought you did. I thought everyone knew.”

Harry shakes his head. He can’t process this. His hand twitches.

“Fuck!” Tears begin to prick at the corners of his eyes. Why the hell did he think picking up the mug right-handed was a good idea so soon after an attack? Ron says nothing, just stands, grabs the tea towel off the counter and mops the spilled drink off the table, collecting the shards of the broken mug into a pile. Harry presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, feeling them burning. “I’m not having a good day today.”

“I can see that.” Ron says gently. “Why don’t you go have a sit down in the drawing room or something, and I’ll join you in a minute with another drink and something to eat.”

Harry nods and does as Ron suggested, still feeling shaky. But a few minutes pass and he manages to calm a little, still upset and confused but more in control. He’s ready to talk about it.

Ron enters the room with two plastic cups of orange juice and a plate of biscuits. Harry appreciates the gesture – whilst he’s feeling better than he was before, he’s still not in control of his hand and the thought of potentially breaking something else today is not appealing.

“So, Snape’s still alive?” Harry asks quietly once Ron’s settled. 

Ron nods. “It was very close to start with, Nagini really messed him up. Hermione said that he was in critical condition for nearly a week, but when he stabilised, he didn’t wake. They tried everything they could, but he just remained in the coma. And now the twenty-five years is coming up, they’re going to have to pull the plug on him. As a ward of the ministry, they don’t have the funding to keep him going.”

“But…” Harry frowns. There were so many things wrong. “Why has no one taken responsibility for him?”

Ron gives him a sympathetic look. “Mate, as far as I’m aware, no one’s visited him.”

Harry’s heart plummets. “No one? No one at all?”

Ron shakes his head. “I think Narcissa Malfoy did try at one point, but the whole family has been refused access. I don’t really think that’s fair, but that’s what you get for being ex-death eaters.”

Harry picks up a biscuit and stares at it for a moment, trying to get his thoughts in order. 

“You ok mate?” Ron asks gently.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I think so. It’s just… why did no one tell me? Or,” He places the biscuit back down and clasps his hands together, feeling frustrated and fidgety and wanting to punch something. “Why didn’t I know? I mean, god, I named one of my kids after him. In memory of him. And he’s alive. And… how could I not know that?”

Ron shrugs. “I truly am sorry mate, I really did think you knew.”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s not your fault.”

Ron gives a short nod, and it’s a while before either of them speaks again. 

\-----  
The next morning Harry wakes early. He’s not slept well, his mind playing the last time he saw Snape over and over again, followed by visions of him lying alone in a hospital room, gathering dust like a piece of unwanted, unused furniture. When he wakes, he knows instantly that one of the first things he has to do is visit the man. Has to see Snape for himself.

He showers quickly, then heads to the kitchen to make some breakfast. Pulling a cup out of the cupboard, he’s glad to see that his hand is barely trembling today. That’s one worry off his mind at least. Harry has a cup of coffee – two sugars, small splash of milk – and a slightly stale croissant that he picked up on his way home the day before yesterday. Then looks at the clock. 9am.

“Morning Mr Potter,” A voice says cheerfully. Harry can’t believe the woman behind the reception desk is the same one who was here last time he came. And the time before that. “Here about your hand?”

“Erm, no actually.” He replies, pulling the sleeve of his coat over his right hand, feeling self conscious about it of a sudden. He knew there was a reason he didn’t like coming here. “I was actually wondering if I could see Severus Snape? He’s a coma patient here.”

“Oh Mr Snape!” The old woman exclaims. “I’ve been so hoping he’ll get a visitor, poor lamb.”

“You’ve been keeping an eye on him?” Harry asks, hoping Ron is wrong about Snape’s lack of guests. 

“Well, no,” She admits, casting her eyes down for a moment as if ashamed. “Not really. But I’ve got a very good memory, and not once have I ever had someone come to see him. Not since I’ve been working here anyway, and that’s a good twenty years now at least.”

Harry sighs. “Well I’d very much like to see him please.”

“Right you are Mr Potter. He’s on the first floor, Dagworth-Granger ward. I’m sure you’ll recognise him once you’re there.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, and moves towards the lifts. Dagworth-Granger ward, that name rings a bell. Harry’s reminded of a conversation with Hermione many years ago – whether she was related. The founder of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers. Fitting for an ex-potions professor.

The room is easy enough to find. The lift opens near the end of a corridor. To the right, Harry can see a fair number of people, Healers easy to spot in their lime green robes, patients even easier with the vast amounts of damage magical creatures can do to a person. To the left is a short stretch of corridor leading to a lone door, the window showing a darkened room beyond. There are no staff around that area, but Harry spots the small, golden, double-barrel word that embosses the door that lets him know he’s in the right place. It’s a depressing thought.

And when Harry approaches the door and lets himself into the room, it’s a depressing sight too. There are three beds in the room, but only one is occupied. The lights are off, and when Harry finds the switch he can see that most of the room looks like it’s not been touched in years. The visitor’s chairs are stacked neatly in one corner, the two free beds are tidy, but Harry can see a layer of dust on the frames. He wonders when the last time someone turned the light on was.

Finally he allows himself to look at the occupied bed. Severus Snape. How many times has Harry gone over the final battle in his head, wishing things could have been different. And now he finds they were… it’s very, very strange. Harry approaches the man slowly and quietly, as though afraid to wake him. In some ways, he is. He knows that the chances of Snape waking after twenty five years because of Harry walking across the floor are very slim, but if it did happen, Harry’s not entirely sure he’d know what to say. So he does approach trying not to wake Snape, but he still wants to see him.

He looks peaceful. He looks disturbed. He looks both alive and dead. He looks a thousand things that Harry can’t put into words, but most of all he looks sad. He looks lonely. Magic has worked wonders as always, and yet Harry can still see a faint hint of a scar around Snape’s throat, from where the wound had obviously been at its worst. Harry reaches out a hand, finger itching to trace the silvery line, but he retracts it at the last moment. It’s shaking again. He doesn’t want Snape to have to deal with that.

“To give up so much, then spend the rest of your life alone.” Harry whispers, his voice sounding strange in the quiet room. He’s not sure whom he’s referring to at that moment – himself or Snape. But no, he’s being melodramatic. That doesn’t refer to himself at all, he’s not alone. Not really. He’s got the children, and Ron and Hermione, and now Snape… Harry summons a chair from the stack at the side of the room, settles it close to the bed and doesn’t leave for a good two hours.


	2. Part 2

Over the next few weeks, Harry becomes a little obsessed with visiting Snape. He goes most days to spend at least an hour sitting by the man’s side, sometimes talking, sometimes taking a book, sometimes just sitting and watching. He feels it’s the least he can do for a man who gave up so much, both for him and for the rest of the wizarding world. 

One day when he arrives at the small room, he is surprised that he’s not alone. Two Healers are standing at the end of Snape’s bed, looking over his chart and talking quietly together.

“I’m not interrupting anything am I?” Harry asks hesitantly, hovering at the entrance, not sure whether or not to approach Snape. He so desperately wants to know what’s going on, but can’t help but feel like it’s none of his business. After all, Snape doesn’t even know he’s been visiting, and he doubts the man would want a Potter sticking his nose in his business if he were conscious.

One of the Healers, a thin, balding man with a pair of spectacles that seemed too small for his face, turns to peer at Harry.

“I’m afraid we’re here to discharge Mr Snape,” he says, frowning. “It’s the twenty-fifth anniversary of his admittance, and the hospital does not have the funding to look after him any more.”

Twenty-five years. Today. 

God.

How could Harry have forgotten it was today? Twenty-five years is a big anniversary. No wonder Ron and Hermione had been quiet over the last few days. How could he have forgotten it was coming up to the day that always reminded them of Remus, Tonks, Fred… so many people died, and yet they all slipped Harry’s mind completely. All because he’s got so used to his daily routine of visiting Snape that he’s lost all track of the date. 

Wait.

Discharge? But Snape’s still unconscious…

“What do you mean discharge? You mean he’s just going to be left to die?” Harry takes a few quick strides until he’s standing next to Snape, as if he could protect him against their words. As if he needed to.

The other Healer purses her lips, giving her a pinched, unpleasant sort of look. “It’s not just ‘being left to die’,” she says tightly. “We have looked after Mr Snape for a good twenty five years, as was just stated. We cannot do it any more. Legally and physically. We don’t have the power or the resources.”

“I could do it.” Harry says, not thinking about the words until they came out of his mouth. He could do it? What did he know about looking after people? But even as he thinks over how ludicrous the suggestion was, he knows it’s the right one to make. Snape doesn’t deserve to die. He thought that twenty-five years ago, and he still thinks that now. Doubly so now that Harry knows he’s been alone for so long.

“I could do it.” He repeats again, stronger now. He’s not sure whether he’s trying to reassure himself or the staff, only that it’s the right idea, and he must get through to them. “I’ll look after him.”

The first healer frowns. Harry wonders whether the man has any other facial expressions. “Mr Potter, this is extremely unorthodox.”

Harry nods. “I realise that. And I know I’m not listed as next of kin or anything, but I really don’t want Snape to die and I’m willing to do whatever it takes. I’m perfectly able to do so.” He clutches his hands together behind his back so that they don’t notice the slight shaking that has plagued him constantly for the last three days. He prays it’s not become permanent.

Because how is he meant to look after someone if he can’t even look after himself?

“If you do take him home,” the female healer says shortly, “you must be aware that there are a number of things that must be done every single day. For the most part, Mr Snape is an easy patient. He will require spells and potions to provide all the nutrition he needs to survive, and he will need cleaning from time to time. The easiest method of course is a charm, but don’t rely on freshening charms. They don’t give a thorough enough clean.”

“In addition,” the man says pensively, “he should probably have some physical stimulation every now and then so that his muscles don’t deteriorate completely, but as it is doubtful that he will awaken it probably doesn’t matter too much if you are unable to do so. Apart from that, I imagine you could stick him in a cupboard and he wouldn’t change.” He sighs and removes his glasses to clean them. “Forgive me Mr Potter, I don’t mean to be blasé, but I very much doubt you’re going to have him awaken. But I don’t suppose there’s any harm in trying.”

Harry’s heart gives an odd sort of swell. He didn’t realise that he’d become so attached to Snape again so quickly. “I am very much willing to try,” he said firmly. “Would I be able to come back in a few hours to collect him, so that I can go and prepare a room, or do I have to take him now?”

The healers exchange a long glance, before the woman nods slightly.

“You may return in a few hours,” Spectacles says. “We will sign him out now so that you can simply collect him. This ward is rarely used so we’re in no great rush for the beds.”

“I noticed.” Harry replies flatly. It’s ridiculous that there are beds literally gathering dust here when there are other wards crammed full with people, but there’s nothing he can do about that. Except maybe inform Hermione that she may have a new ward to ‘borrow’ resources from.

The woman bristled. “Collect him in two hours, otherwise he’ll be gone.”

“Gone where?” Harry asks as the healers move towards the door.

“Just gone, Mr Potter. Gone.” 

\---

“Oh, Harry.”

Harry winces slightly but carries on moving boxes to the side of the room. He can’t stand that tone of voice.

“Harry will you stop for just a moment and look at me?” Hermione’s voice is firmer this time, and Harry can’t help but pause. He turns to look at her for the first time, head floating in the fireplace. Why did he think connecting all the rooms in the house to the Floo was a good idea?

He sighs. “Hello Hermione.” Drags one of the boxes nearer to the fireplace and sits on it.

Hermione smiles weakly. “Have you thought about this? Properly I mean, not just in the spur-of-the-moment way I’m sure you did whilst at the hospital.”

Harry frowns. “Of course I have,” he says, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. “I’m not stupid you know.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Hermione says placatingly, “I’m just asking. After all, if you look after him properly, he could be with you for the next century at least. He’s only sixty-three years old. You know wizards live a lot longer than muggles.”

“I have to do something,” Harry says quietly. “I didn’t do anything last time I thought he was dying, so I have to do something now. And you don’t know, he might wake up.” He doesn’t know whether or not he believes his own words. Will Snape wake up? Really? If he hasn’t in twenty-five years, why would he suddenly do so now?

“You couldn’t have done anything last time without getting yourself killed.” Hermione says firmly. “We were at war. People died. It’s not your fault.”

Harry shakes his head. “I know it’s not really, but he’s always sacrificed himself for others, and what has anyone else done for him? He didn’t even have any visitors.”

Hermione purses her lips. “Have you also thought about the fact that this may change things with the children? You’re bringing a stranger into the house, someone who you may have around for the rest of your life; they may not feel comfortable with him here. They might feel like you’re paying Snape too much attention and not giving them enough, because I know what you’re like Harry when you set your mind on something, and –”

“I’m not going to obsess over looking after Snape to the expense of the kids,” Harry cuts her off. “Besides, they’re hardly children anymore. James is eighteen, Al’s just become of age.” He rubs a hand over his face, trying to fight off the tiredness that has suddenly come over him. “I want them here ‘Mione, I really do. But they’re past the stage where they have to be here for a week and then at their mother’s for a week. Not that we’ve ever done that really,” he adds in a mumble, “they were too old when we split up. The point is,” he takes a deep breath and raises his voice a little, “the point is that they’re old enough now to decide where they want to stay. I want them to stay here, but James might decide to get his own place, and even if the other two decide to stay with Ginny I have no doubt that they’re not going to abandon me just because I have someone staying in my house. Someone who can’t do anything, I might add.”

He glances down quickly at his hand. It’s still shaking lightly. He’d thought on the way back from the hospital that it had stopped, but obviously not. Harry can tell Hermione saw the glance when she frowns again and opens her mouth, but Harry puts up a hand to stop her before she can start.

“I don’t want to hear it.” He says. “Not if you’re going to say anything about my hand. We’ll cross that barrier when we come to it. For now, I’m just going to finish straightening out this room, and then I’m going to return to the hospital to collect Snape.”

Hermione nods, resigned. “My shift finishes in an hour, if you’d like me to stick around and help you get him settled in. I can sit with him if you like until you’re ready to pick him up.”

Harry smiles, “I would really appreciate that. Thank you.”

Hermione gives him a wry grin. “Don’t worry about it. I do think you’re right in a way; we’ve not treated him very well. I’d be happy to keep him company. Especially since I don’t have to worry about him talking.” 

“Goodbye Hermione,” Harry laughs and stands up, stretching. He’s vaguely aware of Hermione saying goodbye and the Floo closing, and then he turns around and picks up the box. He will get the room in a better state than the hospital one was. Even if it kills him.

Which, he thinks, wry glance at his wrist, is a distinct possibility.


End file.
